And Rock Me Asleep
by Nerweniel
Summary: The story of Minerva McGonagall's life and of the quest which changed it. ADMM.
1. Prologue

**And Rock Me Asleep**

**Prologue**

I have wondered many times whether my story is or ever will be one to be told- whether it is not the sort of story which deserves to be kept a secret, hidden deep inside of the dark depths of that bizarre thing which we call "the human mind". And in a way, I want to keep it a secret. I know it is a form of cowardice, of course, and I am ashamed, but I also know that it is only logical.

It is he, it is the only man who ever had any influence over me, who convinced me to write it all down in the end. So in the end, he indeed has proven to be my superior in bravery, just as he has proven to be my superior in many things during the course of our long, shared lives. It is Albus who has made me do this.

And you who walk by, I beg you not to judge me.

First hear my story.

-o-

My life started on October 4th, 1920. I was an only child, born when my mother had passed the age of seventy already, and thus in my own way a miracle- or so my parents told me. Later on, I learnt that I was nothing uncommon, that children had been born to much older women than my mother, and yet I always fostered that thought of having been born a miracle. It was the only little bit of arrogance which I permitted myself, and it helped me through many complicated and even downright perilous situations during my long life. My mother was happy and proud when I first opened my mouth and cried, and so, I heard, was my father. He was even older than she was, but, having quite a few muggle ancestors, he had apparently thought it his duty to fight in that so-called Great War of theirs. My mother apparently thought him an idiot- I have had the pleasure to inherit her temper- but after yelling and throwing things at him, when in the end even her crying and begging didn't work, she allowed him to go. She always told me she'd never expected him to return, and yet he did. My father did return from Flanders, where he'd fought in the trenches of the frontline of Ypres for four full years.

When, in 1918, two years before my birth, he returned, he brought many souvenirs home. His left leg was not one of them. I have never known my father to be anything else than, as he himself put it, "a cripple"- I did not even know other children's daddies had two legs up till about my fourth birthday. It was something I accepted.

So then I was born, and my father, embittered by what he'd seen during the war, started living again. I was a daddy's girl in every single way- just as Scottish as he was. My mother, Lydia, was half an Englishwoman, but, as Father often, affectionately, remarked, thank God for Mother's temper. Then again I do believe that he gave up on that opinion even long before I started my seven-year long student career at Hogwarts. He, who'd never known so much as one grey hair during his long life, was totally and utterly grey-haired before my second birthday.

Yes, I do suppose I was a spoilt child, in my way. I was not demanding, not loud and not aggressive or even excessively rude- but I knew what I wanted and I cannot remember ever resting before I had got it, too. I read before my fourth birthday and cared about not much more than books during my early childhood. I learnt quickly and easily.

And yet the main influence on my childhood was not the various books I consumed. It was not the few friends I, always somewhat not as self-confident as I looked, had made. It was not even my dearly beloved father- or the early funeral of my mother when I was merely nine years of age.

I do believe it was something else.

It was her face.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I was three years of age and asleep.

My bed was a large, richly decorated cot, made of the most beautiful, dark mahogany wood, engraved with little roses and leaves. My father always was a great lover of nature and, needless to say, he was rich as well. The McGonagall estate, which he had inherited at nineteen, when his father, my grandfather, had passed away, did not only contain of that wonderful house where most of my childhood was spent, but also of the most wonderful lawns and gardens I have, truly, ever seen in my life. The Castle of Hogwarts has been my home for many years now, and though its rooms, walls and halls never cease to amaze me, I cannot but think the lawns not so far superior of those of the spot where I was born- just like I never could forget the room I occupied up till my eleventh year, and occasionally afterwards as well.

It was a pretty, light room, decorated and constructed specially for me, on orders of my father. It was much lighter and looked much merrier than the rest of the beautiful, yet undoubtedly ancient house- and needless to say I was fond of it, fond of it with the fondness which most probably everybody feels for the earliest room they ever occupied.

And so I lay there, in my cot- three years old and asleep. I cannot exactly tell what I looked like in my sleep for, naturally, I was asleep at the time- but I do imagine there must have been some tossing and turning involved. My hair had most probably come loose from the neat braid my mother always insisted on- and I can imagine I was crying.

The dream I was having was the same I had many times afterwards- and perhaps I'd even had it before, that I don't know.

_The black-haired woman stretched her legs under the heavy, grey petticoat she was wearing- and her dark greenish eyes shone with tears and half-suppressed anger, as she threw back her head. The tiles on the ceiling were grey- grey like her frock, grey like the- to her- invisible skies above the city of London- and once more she did a weak attempt on counting them, so as not to go mad. _

_Madness was her greatest fear- not death. She could live with death, after all- a bad pun indeed, but true. The thought of dying in itself was not scary to her- she was not easily frightened, after all, and she had known what she had started on the moment she had started it. That was not her problem- though she could feel her heart beating harshly against the insides of her mind as she thought about how she would leave life behind._

_What bothered her was the fact that in leaving life, she was leaving someone else as well. Someone who needed her- and it was not the man she loved. Mark, or so she believed, would be able to save himself and, if he couldn't, they would at least die together the way they had- though in secret- lived together. It was not for him that she feared- even though she knew she'd do everything to save him._

_But if she, she who united them, she who had to live, was ever harmed, she'd never forgive herself._

_And the woman started to cry, dark head now rested against her crossed arms in despair- and once more she yelled._

And somewhere in her cot in Scotland, a small girl woke up.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

I woke up that night, but though I was crying I did not want to wake my parents. I remember that feeling very clearly, somehow- and so I just lay there, gazing at the ceiling with but one image etched against the inside of my eye. It was not that of the rich, high wooden ceiling of my bedroom.

What I saw that night- and many other nights as well- was this. I saw a face- the face which I'd later start labelling as _her_ face- and it scared and fascinated me at the same time. It was not a face of anyone I knew, and yet it was. It is, even after all those years, still hard to explain. And now I think of it, hard to describe as well. I see her face in front of my eyes as I write this, and yet I find it hard to write down any words that will ever do her justice.

Look- she was not beautiful, you see. Let that be clear. She wasn't some kind of idealistic vision of an angel, born inside of the mind of a young child. She was real. Her face was interesting- though I did not realize that as such back then- but not pretty- pale and rather angular as it was. Her eyes were dark green and big, fearful, too- but that was perhaps understandable seeing the circumstances which I would only later understand. Her hair was black, though, and it was thick and very long as well- and the only part of her that I, being a three-year old back then, did not think very frightening, despite its colour.

I wanted to get her face off my mind, but I couldn't.

I did not sleep that night.

-o-

And yet as time passed, I started to get used to her. At first, whenever I woke up after such a dream, I used to pull the thick, tartan blankets over my head and remain hidden under them until dawn- but slowly I started realizing that she would not hurt me. She was sad, yes, and angry as well, but that anger and sadness was not directed at me.

In the end I almost smiled in my sleep as I felt her familiar presence- and yet I didn't. Because with the sympathy and realization also came the worry. I was a serious, calm four-year old by then, and I started pondering. When people cried, they were sad, I had learnt. Mother had cried at the funeral of my Granddad. So the bizarre woman with her green eyes and her angular face was sad- but why?

It would take me many years to find that out- and it would take me even more years to understand it. But one day I would- even as a young child I knew that. One day I would understand it all- and at four years of age, I sincerely looked forward to that day.

-o-

_The woman with the green eyes bowed over the parchment in front of her. Her black hair was kept neatly tied against the back of her head by a small, golden, embroidered cap, so it did not bother her, and with a concentrated twitching of the corners of her mouth, she once more dipped her quill in the small pot of ink beside her. _

_She'd thought about writing a will at first- but bitterly and, unfortunately, realistically, she had realized that despite all her riches and the money she had never wanted, she had nothing to leave her daughter. The girl would have to live life on her own, and despite everything- her status, her money- it would become a dangerous existence too._

_And yet the dark-haired woman did write something that night. She did not think she could ever manage to leave the earth behind without at least some material proof of her- relatively short- existence. She had loved life and love too much for that- not without sadness could she say goodbye to the world. She wished she could- she wished she could leave her life behind with the benignity and peace of those who had accepted their death- but at the same time she very well knew that she did not have the temper nor the spirit for such a calm surrender. She had always been a fighter- well, then she would die as a fighter as well; She knew that- she accepted that, but sometimes she wished it could be otherwise._

_And with one, soft stroke of the quill in her hand, the woman-in-grey started her last letter._

"_Oh Death, rock me asleep."_


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The dreams became, through the years of my childhood, a sort of steadying influence on my young life. My childhood was, though spoilt and rich enough, not particularly easy- and for some reason, the strange woman-in-grey with her black hair made me accept that. Made me realize, perhaps, that despite the illness of my mother and the growing sadness of my father, there were still people out there who lived under way worse circumstances than me. Because around my sixth year I started realizing that the woman, sitting in her cell, was doing nothing more or less than merely waiting for her death. My young mind had refused to acknowledge that at first, but my watching my mother die had somehow rendered me much more serious than other children my age, and I recognized death in the deep, green eyes of the woman.

And yet she helped me. When Mother died, I was shocked and sad, but somehow I managed to relativise the situation much better than my father could. I suppose I could be considered hard, for such a young child, but it was not that I did not grieve. For that I did, more than anyone ever knew- I just, somehow, knew with an intuition that even I myself did not understand, that death was inevitable and as such a part of life. Later on, I realized that that must have seemed to be a very bizarre attitude for a child my age, but not back then. Every time I felt tears in my eyes and sadness in my heart, I merely remembered the crying woman, waiting for her death- and I could breathe again.

It was all very strange.

When my eleventh year in life started and I got the letter to Hogwarts, I had grown wise and serious beyond my years. I don't know whether that was entirely positive or entirely negative, but it was the truth. I was neither tall nor physically precocious- but I knew that some of my thoughts were too old for me, and in fact it worried me.

What had started to worry me, too, was the woman-in-grey herself. I had realized by then that my dreams were more than just dreams, and it upset me in a way I could not- and still cannot- wholly explain. I had read many books before even entering Hogwarts, and always have I felt the natural dislike of a realistic, down-to-earth Scotswoman towards anything even slightly supernatural. The thought that perhaps my dreams tried to tell me something- well honestly, that thought made me sick.

And yet I knew that there were only two possibilities regarding those dreams I was having. I had read about them in a book- I even believe it was a muggle book. Or my dreams were trying to tell me something- and that I did not want to believe, somehow- or they simply were the result of, I quote, "an unconscious obsession of my inner mind".

Now come on. I was three when the dreams started, and precocious, serious, strange or whatnot, I honestly could not imagine me having any unconscious obsessions with a woman I had never in my entire life met before. Because I was sure that I hadn't- despite the strange feeling of "having seen her before" which was, I was sure of that, most probably caused by the dreams having started at such a very young age.

At ten, too, before I had even entered Hogwarts, another urge was awoken inside of me. I had always been a curious child, eager for knowledge and unable to accept things without knowing "why" or "how". It would become the great frustration of my devoutly Catholic father, for the idea of a dogma was entirely impossible to me. I needed proof, I always needed proof, and I did not rest until I'd found it.

So in fact I wonder now why I did not start to ask questions earlier- but then again it was only understandable. I, even at that young age, blatantly refused to believe that my dreams were anything more than dreams- that the woman-in-grey with her clear green eyes was anything more than merely a vision of my young mind.

By the time I was ten, though, I'd grown convinced and realistic enough to accept the unacceptable, and I became convinced to find out who she was. My only and thus main problem was this; where could I look for her? I knew nothing about her but for the fact that she was locked up and awaiting her death, where should I start?

The first, horrible thought I had was this one. What if she was not a vision of the past or future? What if she was a living, breathing creature of the present, awaiting her escape?

Soon, though, I labelled that idea as nearly impossible- and I started thinking. The past? Or the future? But where could I find information about her? Even if she was a vision from the past, where on earth should I be able to find her?

And quickly I got discouraged. I'm ashamed to say it, even after all those years, but it was understandable- I gave up my quest even before I had started it.

My time at Hogwarts would change that, though.

And Albus would.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

We had just crossed the lake- like all First Years at Hogwarts do- by boat, when Ogg, the Keeper of the Keys, handed us over to a man with thick, auburn hair and a short beard. His eyes were blue and friendly and I, eleven years of age and not used to smiling much, could not refrain from answering that kind grin of his. I don't know what it was about him, but he felt familiar and despite all seriousness and studiousness, I still was a child in search for the large family she had never had. I remember having the feeling that, while rendering his short but kind speech, he was directing his words especially at me.

Now, though, I think that every child in that little crowd of First Years had that feeling. It's always been, in my opinion, one of the greatest powers of the man who now is my husband, that he always manages to get along with every single person. I must admit I have never had the pleasure to possess that quality- and that is basically why I have always admired it in Albus. It is also what makes him a great Headmaster, I believe- and what made him a wonderful Head of Gryffindor back then.

For it was in Gryffindor that I was sorted, of course. I cannot help but be proud to say, even after all those years, that the Sorting Hat did not hesitate for one single second- and I was delighted. I was delighted, and not just because I was sorted in the House of my ancestors, also because I desperately wanted to know who he was, that friendly, blushing man with his dark auburn beard and his kind eyes. I was told both his name and his subject at that very same Welcoming Feast, and one thing I did not understand.

Though his name, Albus Dumbledore, sounded entirely unknown to my ears, I knew his face. Or not exactly _his _face- just a face very much like it. As if I had met his brother, or his father, before.

It was strange, but after a few weeks at Hogwarts, I did not care anymore. I had looked for a family, and somehow I felt as if I had found one. All of a sudden I had classmates who were, if not friends, still companions, and I had classes. It sounds like a very strange thing to say but I, always educated at home, had really looked forward to "real school" for a very long time. I was eager to learn, and though I never managed to read all books in Father's extensive library, I am sure I read all children's books at least three times.

I could not have been more delighted with Hogwarts- and the woman-in-grey was easily pushed aside in the excitement of the first days. She was never forgotten, though, and as I woke up in the middle of my third night with her face etched on my mind, I knew she had never been gone, and that she would never be gone.

My curiosity was awoken before it had even been buried.

Yet I knew it was an impossible quest, and I fought. I really did. I buried myself in work, visited the library, revelled in all my new interesting classes. Except for potions, might I add- because, though the teacher was a nice woman, I have never been able to brew anything more complicated than hot chocolate. But I had a natural talent for Transfiguration, like many of my family, and that accompanied by my respect and liking for the teacher, Professor Dumbledore, made me both an attentive and eager student.

He liked me, too, that I know, but I don't know whether he thought my face familiar as well. I have never asked him- and even if I should ask him, would he still remember?

But it doesn't matter, after all.

Even during those first days of my existence at Hogwarts, though, I already nothing less than loved the library. I have always been fascinated by books, by the amount of knowledge stored in them- and so how could I not fall for that beautiful hall filled with my favourite artefacts? Yes, I did spend many hours there. It was my favourite place to study, though I could not exactly say why.

Yet now I know.

I will never forget the day I opened a book and looked straight into her eyes.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

I think I must have been unable to move for about five minutes- or longer. I did not faint or something- I just stared, and slowly, slowly I started to get convinced that indeed it was her. I thought it impossible at first- preposterous, even, what would _she _be doing in _my _dreams, but it all fitted too well- way too well.

Not only was the face in the portrait almost identical in every single way to the woman I knew so well, everything- just fitted. The things she thought, the name- Mark- she had mentioned, the fact that she was locked up. I had heard her name before, of course- it was and still is quite impossible to grow up in Britain, or in Europe, for that matter, without ever hearing her name- but somehow I had never linked that famous woman with the person I saw at night.

I knew she was a witch, of course. It was common knowledge, and I, who had even at my young age always been rather fond of history, had known it ever since I was six or so. Actually, now I think of it, it is very strange that I never saw a portrait of her before my arrival at Hogwarts- but then again lots of the books in my father's library were muggle books, rather old and thus non-illustrated.

This one, though, was no doubt a wizarding book- and as the woman-in-grey herself winked and waved at me, I could not but close the book. I must have looked very strange, I think, for even Madam MacInroe, the strict librarian, asked whether I was feeling okay when I practically ran out of the room. I did not answer her- or anyone, for that matter.

All I remember is me running, as quick as my still rather short legs could bear me, back to my dormitory, where I banged the door shut behind my back and fell down on my bed. I remember I was crying, and even back then that was a rather unusual thing for me to do. Whenever I was in some sort of trouble, I'd analyze and ponder, but never cry. It was not that I regarded crying as a sort of weakness- that came later- it was just that I very well knew that crying did not help anyway.

This time I did cry, though- even though in fact my feelings were very two-fold. In a way, I was surprised and rather upset- because I could not think of one reason she would appear in my dreams, and it frightened me. But in a way, I was very glad as well. Finally, finally, after about eight years of passive or active searching, I had found her.

It was almost as if finding a long lost sister back- and yet it was something different. I knew, after all, that she could never be my sister- but still I felt closer to her than to many people I really knew. It was perhaps logical, since I had "known" her face and thoughts for so very long, but still it was strange.

I was not frightened of her, though, like I had been at three years of age. I was more frightened of the mystery that, even though I knew her name and background now, still surrounded the woman. And well of course I was still curious! But what could I do? I had always just looked for an identity, convinced that everything would become clear as long as I had a _name_- but deep down I must have always known that I was just deceiving myself. For that I was- or at least, that I had been.

I had realized as soon as I saw her face, that it had brought me more questions than answers into the end.

I had realized that as soon as I read her name.

Anne Boleyn.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"_Boleyn, Anne:  
Born: 1507 (?)  
Died: 1536  
Queen of England 1533-1536"_

Merely two days after I had first seen her face, I found myself once more staring at it- this time reading the article below in the process. It did not tell me much more than I already knew, and quickly I closed the book again, still dissatisfied with my so-called "new" knowledge. The only new thing I had learnt was, that Queen Anne Boleyn had been a witch- but then again even that did not come as a great surprise. I had learnt at a very young age that many important and famous persons in the history of the muggle world had been witches or wizards- and after all, whoever had ever read anything about Anne Boleyn could never think that very unlikely.

And yet I decided that no, history books could not bring me the answers I needed. I could only hope my dreams would ever be able to, but since there was little or no variation in them, even that hope was easily taken away from me.

So I went on- went on with that blissful determination of the young, and in a- vain- attempt to forget about Anne, I threw myself even more at my classes- or, especially, at one particular class.

I had fallen in love with Transfiguration from the first moment onwards. It was my great talent, too- the way it still is. I have many faults and arrogance is, luckily, not one of them, but still I could not but feel pride and a strange sort of- happiness when I first managed to change a match into a needle. It was, perhaps, a relatively small achievement, but to me it meant the world.

I had always an intelligent child, quick to learn and be taught, but finally I had found my one, great talent- the one talent everybody has and yet not everybody discovers- and I revelled in it.

And no, I cannot deny that I liked the teacher as well. I don't believe that what I felt can be labelled love back then- after all I was, despite all relative maturity, still a child and he was older than my father- but what I did feel for him was respect. Much respect, and a strange form of adoration which I would later start to label as a "teenage infatuation".

There was also a third emotion involved.

It took me a very long time to find out exactly what it was, and even now as I sit here, a witch of middle age, knowing everything I did not know back then, I find it hard to give it a name.

Perhaps "recognition" would come closest.

I immediately felt I knew him much better than I did, and now I know that it is mutual. My teenage infatuation resulted, namely, in a marriage, and as my husband looks over my shoulder as I write this- one of his more terrible habits- he cannot but add some lines of his own. I will not add them here, for I believe they are coloured by his present feelings- like all memories in some way are- but I can add that he shared that bizarre feeling of mine.

Recognition.

We became friends very easily, even despite the distant student-teacher relationship we always managed to maintain in front of the rest of the world. I believe it was by the start of my second year at Hogwarts that he invited me for our very first chess match- and my triumph on that day made those chess matches into a bi-weekly event. It is a habit we even now still have. Both he and I were good at chess and used to winning- we were a challenge to each other, the way we were in many ways.

I don't have to emphasise, I think, that we both knew the rest of Hogwarts and in particular, the teachers, did not need to know about it. We did nothing wrong, of course- I was twelve!- but still we understood the power of gossip, and I remember having a very strong feeling of "not wanting to lose this".

For yes, of course I fell in love with him- and, to my utter surprise, he with me. The feeling of recognition only stimulated our mutual admiration- which we, may I add, kept a secret for even each other for at least five years. I was sixteen already when he first, tentatively, kissed me, and even then I know he felt guilty.

And yet that guilt was overshadowed by something deeper- as if we were meant for each other. I hear myself snort at this line- have I descended into corny sentimentality?- but it is the truth.

And the woman-in-grey and her questions were almost forgotten.

Yet it was Albus who would lead to answers in the end.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"Checkmate, Albus."

I leant back in my chair with a faint smile on my face. Even though I liked my Professor- whom I'd grown accustomed to call Albus in private- I liked winning as well, and every weekly chess match was another battle for victory. We were- and are- both excellent chess players, and neither of us was used to losing much. We were worthy opponents, as Albus always used to say.

My beloved teacher, sitting opposite me, bowed his head in acknowledgement after staring at the chess pieces for a split second. He was grinning, though, and when he looked up again, his eyes were twinkling in that very typical way of his.

"And once more you triumph, my dear."

I smiled and rolled my eyes at this remark. He very well knew he was just as good as I was, and that winning or losing between us two was almost entirely a matter of chance. Then again he was, and stayed, always the perfect gentleman in that positively preposterous yet so adorable way of his.

My eyes locked with his for a moment, and I knew I should have lowered my gaze- but I could not resist. A strange silence fell, the way it always fell after our chess match had ended- but it was different that time. More comfortable- and warmer.

"Well- I guess I should be going now, before someone catches me in the corridors after curfew."

Yet still he did not speak a word, and as he stood up as well, a gentle smile on his lips, I could not but mirror that smile. His eyes were, and still are, damn enchanting, and frankly, I have never been able to resist them.

Albus could and still can express the world with those eyes.

"Minerva?"

I looked up. There was something, hidden in the depths of his low voice, that was new and yet not new to me- and though it did not surprise me, I almost heard my own heart beating inside of my chest.

"Albus?"

His blue eyes bored in my green ones, and as his hand came to rest against my cheek, I was lost.

His lips touched mine just a moment later. It was the first kiss I had ever received, and it was short, but it was enough. As I rested my head against his chest a moment later, I heard the unspoken apology in his voice.

"Minerva- I…"

"I believe I love you."

I don't know which hidden power inside of me made me speak those words so seemingly rashly- and so quickly, too, to somebody who was my teacher no less. I honestly don't know, even now- but I meant them with all heart I possessed.

There was apology is his eyes as well, but that, too, I kissed away. I knew he loved me- his inability to let me go proved that- and at that moment I knew that no rule, regulation or scandal in the world would ever separate us.

As our lips touched each other again, though, this time for more than just an instant, something strange happened.

The fluttering feeling inside of my stomach did not subside- nor did the overwhelming amount of love leave my eyes for just an instant- but all of a sudden, I found myself staring at Albus in surprise. The clothes he wore- but before I could even finish my thought, our mouths left each other and we just stood there. His stare was no less surprised than mine, and I understood that we had seen the same thing. His words only proved that feeling of mine right.

"Minerva- your dress- it was…"

"Albus, your clothes-"

No more did we say, though. Both of us knew that the other had not got the answers we desired, and as we sank down on the couch together, my head on his chest, his hand toying with my braid, I knew, and he knew, that we were both wondering what this previous, strange experience of us could possibly mean.

I was the first one to speak up, though.

"I thinkI loved you beforeI met you."

And I had the strange feeling that I was right.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

That blissful day with its strange vision was the start of a relationship that would conquer decades to come. The mysterious dream we had apparently both been having at the same time made us more than lovers, though. It was a very bizarre experience, true, but it was worth it. Not only did it- but that I did not yet realize- bring me considerably closer to the core of my own personal mystery, it also brought me and Albus much closer together than we already were.

Something stronger even than that valued friendship of ours came between us. A bond, perhaps stronger even than our mutual respect- than our love- came between us- and it was the bond of companionship. Of sharing something deeper than a human affection, even.

Of course I loved him. Of course I enjoyed every moment of those quiet Saturday afternoons, after a few weeks simply spent by lying in each others arms and staring at each other in rather silly adoration. But there was something else as well, and though we did not experience it with every kiss we shared, and though it did not exactly make our kisses less enjoyable, we knew we shared a love, and with that love, a mystery.

It was Albus who first mentioned it, though. It was very strange but I- call it cowardice or call it an overdeveloped sense of privacy- felt a strange sort of restriction towards sharing the secret I'd kept to myself for so many years.

When he first spoke about it, my only reaction was to lazily raise my head from its resting place against his chest, I must admit- but as I realized that two could most probably come closer to a solution than one, I pushed my glasses a bit firmer on the bridge of my nose, then nodded in answer to his question.

"Minerva, when I first kissed you, did you notice anything- unusual?"

I smiled as I rested my head against his shoulder once more. I simply could not restrain my next remark- and he answered it by a peck on my lips.

"Apart from the butterflies then?"

I sent Professor Dumbledore a rare, impish smile at this line- yet then became serious again, sitting straight up.

"But I do know what you mean. I was- kissing you, and at the same time- just look at the clothes we were wearing."

I remembered the bizarre, almost-medieval suit Albus had been wearing for that split second. It had been made of a sort of very dark red fabric, which had felt like velvet under my fingers- and for some reason, I could still recall every detail, as if it had been etched into my mind during those short moments.

As I looked up at Albus and noticed the dreamy look in those wonderful, blue eyes of his, I knew he, too, remembered my clothing. The long, wide, black-and-white gown I had been wearing had felt familiar as well as unfamiliar to me- but was undoubtedly very pretty. Not the dress of a poor witch, at least- more of a- did I dare to think it?- of a queen.

I sighed at this realization. There would be long story to tell, I knew- and even more feelings to explain.

"Albus, I believe there is something I have to tell you."

I tried to explain everything as well as I could, giving many examples of how my dream constantly repeated itself, telling how I found out about Anne and how I did not exactly understood- or wanted to understand- what it meant- but I was somewhat surprised at the total lack of response of the man sitting next to me. He did not speak a word, and when his eyes got a rather absent expression in them, I raised my eyebrows in barely hidden irritation.

"If you are not interested, you can just say that, Albus, I won't kill you."

With this, Albus seemingly "awoke" from his thoughts, quick to assure me that he was not indifferent to what I was trying to tell him- quite the opposite indeed.

It was then, that he told me that he had felt the same thing for many years. He, too, had had dreams, visions, about a person different from himself for many years. He, too, had wondered many times about the who, what and where of his vision- but he, unlike me, had never found out who his mysterious counterpart was.

"Unlike in your dreams, it was a man, Minerva. He was tall and rather wiry, with thick auburn hair and kind blue eyes- but I never found out who he was. Such a coincidence that you actually found out it was Anne Boleyn- very amazing indeed, my dear."

It was amazing indeed, I suppose- and yet I barely heard those last words of his. I just stared at him, rather incredulously, for Albus, my Albus, had just told me something which was, if not the solution itself, still a very vital part of the solution- and I was amazed at my own, and his, blindness.

"Albus, I think- I think-"

I could barely voice my own thoughts. In fact, I did not want to, because I, calm and down-to-earth Scotswoman that I was, simply could not allow myself to believe in- in-

"Albus, I think we have been-"

He spoke the word before I could finish my sentence- and in the quiet, early near-darkness of that Saturday afternoon, two frightened people disbelievingly stared at each other.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

As my dear Transfiguration teacher returned from the library, a heavy book tucked safely under his arm, I immediately made way for it on his desk. I have to say Albus was very Gryffindor about it, though- did not even wince when I briskly jammed his surprisingly big variety of muggle sweets into one of his- nearly empty!- drawers. His slightly pouting glance did not escape my eye, though, and impatiently I took the book from his hands.

"Oh please, Albus. If you're good, you get a lemon drop later on. Now let us see…"

I did not really know where to look in this book. It was quite the volume- obviously written for people specializing in the history of the wizarding world in the 16th century- and honestly, as I turned the pages and almost literally drowned in details, pictures and figures, I could not keep from feeling rather ridiculous.

I wouldn't find him. Perhaps I was practical, and perhaps I was stubborn, but I was trying to fight literally thousands of pages here, without even knowing for sure that I could find the answer I wanted.

It was very frustrating, and in a sudden fit of despair, I felt tears spring into my eyes- to my utter shame. It was typically me, of course. Neither sadness nor depression could make me cry- but a feeling of failure could.

"It's not going to work, Albus. We're being utterly, totally and unforgivably preposterous."

And I could have cried on that moment. I really could have. I have never experienced a stronger sense of confusion and total loss than on that particular moment.

Yet then, all of sudden, he was there, a cool hand against my cheek and a peck atop of my head- and with soothing fingers he turned the book towards him, glancing at the parchment pages over my shoulder.

"Now calm down, my little Rós na h-Albann. What about- ah here, look at this. I suggest we start here."

I could not but smile at his clumsy pronunciation of the Gaelic words which formed his new nickname for me. Rose of Scotland, they meant- and he insisted on using them, even though, well, as I put it rather frankly-

"You'll never make a proper Scot, Albus Dumbledore. But you're right- of course we should start here."

I could literally slap myself as I lowered my eyes again to the page in front of me. The entry about Anne Boleyn- well of course, where else could we possibly begin the quest which had started out as mine but had now turned into "ours"?

"He must have known her, Minerva- and quite well as well, if the scene we had the privilege to witness is anything to go at. In fact, I do believe that that scene is- well, proof enough to assume that something of closeness existed between them."

I involuntarily blushed at these words of his- prude that I was, or still am- but then briskly nodded. It was true, after all. To put it more frankly; Anne Boleyn had almost certainly been having an affair with the man- for he was not her lawfully wedded husband.

I almost laughed out loud at that mere idea. Henry VIII- wiry? Now I must admit I had never been a true History of Magic expert, and that even I could not but yawn as soon as Professor Binns so much as opened his mouth- but I had seen paintings of the King who reigned over England for almost thirteen years before, and one thing was sure; whatever he had been, he had not been wiry.

"Right. Now this part of her biography-"

I pointed at the first, say, twenty lines of the text.

"-speaks about her childhood and youth, which she partly spent in France. I don't think we will find our man here, do you?"

His quizzical look immediately answered my question.

"Why not, my dear? Could have been an early love, perhaps- one she had to leave behind when returning for England, and-"

But I surprised myself and shook my head. I knew it could not have been a Frenchman, after all. I did not know why I knew that- but I did, and my next answer surprised both me and Albus even more.

"His first name is Mark, after all, and Mark is an English name."


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Dedicated to the mouse in Meredith's room and to her, for finally defeating the evil overlord rodent!_

Albus's dumbfounded look would have been rather funny- had I not had exactly that same look etched on my features. It was true, I had not got a clue why I knew that "his" first name was Mark- but it was just as true that I was sure. We were looking for a "Mark" here, so no Frenchman. Period.

"Minerva, how can you know for sure-"

On that moment, I could have positively slapped Albus. A familiar knot inside of my stomach announced a temper flare coming up, and I sent him one of my already famous angry glares. He was not exactly helping, and after all, even if I wasn't sure, it was the only indication we had.

"I don't know, but I am sure, Albus. Will you, please, trust me?"

His nod was exactly what I needed, and the next moment already, I let out a rather guilty sigh, looking up to Albus with a faint smile.

"I'm sorry, Albus. I just don't know what or where or- this is all kind of confusing, you know?"

The next moment, his arms were around me and my head rested against his chest. The steady beating of his heart beneath my ear comforted me, and it was not without a happy smile that I took up the book again.

"Now I suggest we read the rest of the pages. There's not much chance that we will find this man's name here, of course, but we'll read them anyway, and then-"

Here, I shut up, glancing up at the man beside me. He did not answer my gaze, though- and right in time I swallowed another sharp remark of mine. He was not ignoring me, after all- the look in his clear, blue eyes was not one of disinterest, merely of- of pensiveness.

"Albus?"

My tone of voice was soft, yet inquiring- and for the first time in my life, I realized a truth which would stay with me through many years to come.

Sometimes a whisper is stronger than a yell.

Almost immediately, Albus's eyelids fluttered and his eyes regained the kind, friendly look I was so used to seeing- and the smile on his lips was exactly what I wanted to see. Finally.

I had wondered many times why I seemed to know more about my past counterpart than he did, after all. He had tried to explain that to me by saying that it was only natural, that Scottish people were always more talented for the supernatural, but I knew very well that that was rubbish. I was not talented for the supernatural, and never had been either.

The only reason I had good grades for Divination- and I say _the only one_- was, because my teacher somehow seemed to believe it would bring her bad luck to give me bad grades. The woman had once tried to read my future in a crystal ball, had muttered something about "losing her job in the future" and has since then always been nice to me.

Looking back now- well, perhaps the woman had something of a gift after all.

Anyway, as soon as I looked up to Albus and mirrored his smile by one of my own, I knew he had remembered something. As he started turning the pages, not in a searching, but in a more- purposeful way, I knew I had not been mistaken.

"He must have been executed with Anne, Minerva. He was in love with her and she with him, so it's almost certain that he was one of the five men who were executed with her- her so-called "lovers". Only one of them was named Mark."

And all of a sudden, I remembered the full contents of a history lesson I had learnt at a very young age.

When Anne Boleyn had died, not even thirty years of age, she had been accused of treason and adultery. Adultery with five people- her own brother George, three courtiers, and-

And a court musician, I knew.

An auburn-haired, tall, wiry court musician, with kind, blue eyes and a cheerful smile.

I lowered my eyes to the page in front of me, reading the two words indicated by Albus's long finger.

"Mark Smeaton"


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

As me and Albus sat down together on the couch again, the book opened on his lap, I did not really know what to think or say. Well, there was a slight feeling of triumph, of course- we'd found our man, we even knew what he had to do with Anne- but at the same time, there was a strange feeling of emptiness as well.

After all, we'd assumed that we'd know what to do if only we knew _his _name- but on that very moment, as he read out loud the name of the man, I realized we had been deceiving ourselves. There was nothing "to do" for us now. All we knew were the names, and histories, of the two people we both saw in our dreams- of the people of whom we were- did I dare to say it?- the reincarnations, perhaps.

Truth be told, I hated and still hate that word, "reincarnations", but just the way I have always tried to accept the inevitable, I accepted that as a truth as well. It _was _the utter truth after all- I knew it.

But it did not help us. It did not help us, and all of a sudden I could not but feel useless, useless and rather ridiculous as well.

What had we expected to find? Our very own personal mystery, ready to solve and- oh yes please- some clear instructions as to _how _to solve it as well?

I had- and have- never regarded neither me nor Albus as stupid, but on that moment I honestly thought we were idiots. Like two little children on a treasure hunt, we had never stopped our quest for a moment- to wonder, for example, what the use was of our searching.

And here we sat now, with two names and a lot of history- yet no answers. Albus's blue eyes betrayed the same sort of thoughts- and I felt I had to say at least something.

"Mark Smeaton- what exactly happened to him, Albus? Do you know?"

It was a useless question, of course, and merely another sort of the self-deceit I had almost gradually got used to- and yet I listened to Albus as he explained.

"He was a court musician, Minerva- he played the lute, and he sang. He was no courtier, but was accused of adultery with the Queen anyway. He was tortured until he admitted guilt, but later on denied his confession. He was executed with Anne, I believe- hung, drawn and quartered."

I felt Albus's shoulder slightly shiver under my head, and looked up to him, only to see an uncharacteristic fear in his eyes. A deep compassion filled me as I threw my arms round his neck. I knew he must have some memories of that horrible death of his, and pressed my face against his cheek in an attempt to soothe him.

"That's so horrible, Albus… I wished- I could-"

As he gently released himself frommy embrace, though, his blue eyes were twinkling again, and slowly he shook his head.

"You can't change it, my dear, and nor can I. So let us not worry about it- there is no future in the past."

No future in the past?

I could not but wonder…


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Of course we both did not want to let go of our own personal mystery- and yet autumns became winters and winters became springs, summers- and graduation day arrived sooner than I had ever thought possible.

It was the saddest day in my young existence, that one- even despite a feeling of pride and melancholic happiness at finally not being a schoolgirl anymore. I left much more behind, after all, than just my old school and a bunch of teachers and classmates whom I would remember with a certain fondness.

I was supposed to leave behind the only man I had ever loved behind. The one man on this whole goddamn earth, who had been both companion and lover to me for almost two years- the one I, always such an immensely private person, had shared everything with, and enjoyed it on top of it.

The night before I graduated, though, something happened that would change my entire life forever.

I had packed my trunk and everything- I was supposed to go home for holidays, then start Auror training in September. Part of me was glad because of that- because, being a girl, it had not been easy to convince the Ministry into accepting me- but another part of me was frightened. Frightened to lose what I had so dearly gained- frightened, too, despite everything, that Albus would forget about me when I couldn't visit him daily anymore.

One small glance at both him and his surroundings told me, though, never to doubt the affection of Albus- that wonderful man!- again. I stood utterly speechless and horribly ashamed as I could not but stare at the room- and most of all, at its decorations.

Albus had obviously taken pains to make my last night at Hogwarts a memorable one indeed. Candles were floating in the air everywhere- the ceiling had been enchanted just like the Great Hall's- and he had even bought roses.

"My Rós na h-Albann."

I wasn't surprised as I, all of a sudden, heard his whispering voice in my ear. Nor did I turn around as his arms enfolded me from behind, and it was only as he started softly kissing my neck that I turned around in his arms, pressing my mouth against his in a full, delicious, grateful kiss as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace.

"Albus- my Albus- I'm so afraid to leave."

As I rested my head against his chest, I felt my own tears flowing and only as he tilted up my chin again did I smile. A rough, yet tender thumb gently wiped off my tears as he kissed the tip of my nose.

"You'll never truly leave, Minerva- not if you don't want to."

I raised my head a little so as to try to read in his eyes exactly what he meant by those words. I had a faint idea- but as he, all of a sudden, lowered himself to one knee, I could still hardly believe exactly what he was doing.

"Minerva, you're the only woman I love, the only woman I'll ever love. I can't ask for more than just to share my life with you. My Scottish rose, will you- please- marry me?"

I believe I might have fainted, had not his arms been there to catch me in time- and tears flooded for a second time that night.

"Yes."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

I became Mrs. Albus Dumbledore exactly one month after that blissful day, and the day a Catholic priest- my parents had always been devout Catholics- laid my small hand in my lover's larger one, has always remained etched across my memory as truly, utterly and honestly the happiest day of my entire life.

I was a very young bride, perhaps- not even eighteen years of age yet- but I was sure, just the way I still am. I had found my soul mate, best friend, hero and lover all united in one person- what else was there to find for me? So yes, I was certain, despite my young age and the fact that I had not yet seen much of the world. I was certain, and perhaps it was exactly that certainty which convinced my father in the end.

Daddy was not exactly delighted, when his seventeen-and-a-half year old only daughter announced, just after having graduated, that she was planning to marry a man who was about eighty years her senior, of course. Mind you, he did not try to stop me. Even though technically I wasn't an adult woman yet, so he could, he didn't do any attempts to make me change my mind- he knew me too well for that- but I could feel he was uncomfortable with the idea altogether.

That changed after he met Albus for the very first time, only a week after my love's proposal.

I had always been somewhat aware of my Transfiguration teacher's bizarre ability to claim people for himself, to gain their respect and confidence with a mere blink of his spectacular blue eyes, but never so much as on that moment. Daddy was sitting in his study, of course- his invalidity having locked him once more to his chair- and as Albus entered I, who was standing behind my father, unconsciously held my breath. Partially out of fear, of course- but also partially because I was downright impressed by my fiancé's appearance.

I had perhaps forgotten about part of that strong- aura of his, because of our friendship- but all of a sudden it was once more as obvious as ever, and a strange feeling down in my stomach awoke an unknown memory inside of me.

I had seen this before. I had seen a man- a man like Albus- enter a room before- and I had stood behind another man, not my father, but someone else- and…

Here, though, my trail of thought stopped, because Albus smiled and, to my great surprise, so did Daddy.

"Good day, Mr McGonagall."

"Good day, Mr Dumbledore.

That's how their conversation started- and somehow, it didn't end anymore that night. For some reason, my father and Albus immediately liked each other- had lots of interests in common, too- and I will never forget what Father told me, immediately after Albus had left for the room we had prepared for him.

"Minerva, my child, you know I always said I wouldn't part with you unless it were for the best man in the world, no?"

I started getting a little bit afraid, so I grabbed my father's hand and bowed my head a little, waiting for the inevitable verdict.

Which never came.

"I think you've find him, my daughter. Marry him and be a very happy woman, Minerva. I trust both of you-"

I had pulled him into a very wild hug before he could even finish his sentence.

That night I slept in Albus's arms for the very first time. Daddy couldn't find out, of course- despite his approval of our upcoming wedding- but I was prepared to take the risk, and I daresay the expression on Albus's face wasn't exactly one of dislike as I entered the room.

As I fell asleep, my head on his chest, though, I couldn't but remember something else, something I couldn't even possibly remember.

Another man- another woman- another room.

Another time.

-

"I, Minerva Caitríona McGonagall, take you, Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, as my lawfully wedded husband- for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part."

I had never meant any words more in my life- and yet secretly I wondered.

Would death really part us?


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

We had agreed to spend our honeymoon at Albus's small cottage, somewhere on the borderline between Scotland and England. It was not exotic or expensive, but I was happy with it. Albus, though, did think it a bit of a pity he could not drag me along on a trip through muggle Europe. His strange fascination for muggles has always been one of the parts of about him that I love as well as mock- but most of all I loved it- just like everything else.

I loved our wedding- my white dress, the flowers in my hair, father's approving smile- and yet even more did I love the expression in the eyes of- yes, of my husband- as he gently placed that diamond ring on my finger.

I loved our great feast afterwards- the congratulations we got, the sincere smiles, I loved the soft, waltz music- and yet even more did I love the feeling of my- yes, my husband's- arms around me as we danced.

I loved our wedding, I loved our feast- but even more did I love our wedding night.

And here, I arrive at a difficult chapter in my storytelling. I am not a prude nor am I old-fashioned in the usual meaning of the word- as far as I know- and yet I cannot but find myself hesitating at making this, one of the happiest times of my life, public knowledge.

And yet somewhere deep down I know I have to write at least something of it down. It was all too crucial, too important, too, to just skip it due to the ridiculous prejudices of an old woman.

I stated that I would write my story down, didn't I? Yes, I did- and so I shall. I made a promise to myself, to myself and to him who means more to me than I myself do, and I shall keep it. Only as I write this all down do I realize how much I have needed this, and I won't stop until it is over or until I pass away before having reached the end.

So I will tell.

We made love that night, of course- I don't think I could possibly, despite all privacy issues and possible prudishness, deny that fact. Albus was, and is, my first and only lover. And I am not naïve and I know the world only too well, but deep down I know that it will stay that way. If he should die, I would _not _go on. If he should leave me behind, I would _not_ smile and try to make the best of it- Gryffindor or not.

But anyway- so we did make love that night, and of course it was special to me, and of course it was pure bliss- but that is not what I wanted to narrate.

For on the very moment when we- Albus and me, husband and wife- were finally united and sharing our very own paradise like only true lovers can, something very strange occurred.

I don't remember much- but I do recall her face. I'd never seen it so clearly, so lively, as on that moment. It was- my face, of course, and yet in a way I knew it wasn't- and when she, Anne, for I knew it was her, parted her lips, I heard her voice for the very first time.

It was a like my voice, but softer, deeper- as if it was coming from a place far away, a place barely reachable. Of course it did- and that I realized the next second, as I felt a strange pressure on my heart when Anne started to speak.

"Minerva, I have a task for you."

I did not know where I was or what I was doing on that moment- but I do recall I nodded. Anne nodded too- and my own dark green eyes seemed to smile at me, as urgently she repeated

"I have a task for you- a very important task."

"Wh-what's it?"

"You know."

But I did not know. I watched the woman with her oval, pale face and long, black hair disappear again from my eyes- and powerlessly I could only stretch out my arms- but I could not get her back, no matter how hard I tried.

As, moments later, I found myself falling asleep in my husband's loving arms, I still did not know what Anne so desperately supposed me to know.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

Two weeks after our wedding, my newly wed husband and me returned to Hogwarts again, this time both as teachers. A position as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had all of a sudden gone vacant, and the Board of Governors had, despite my young age and to my and my husband's great pleasure, accepted me as the most qualified of candidates.

It was due to my high NEWT score, I suspected- and I was very glad that the Board had apparently managed to look further than just at that ridiculous number that was called "my age". It was true, of course, that I would have to teach students who were barely one year my juniors- but I daresay that I always managed- even during those first years- to make clear to them exactly who was the teacher and, more important, who was not.

Albus always called- and calls- me "the infamously efficient Professor McGonagall", but contrary to how his teasing self means it, I have always regarded those words as the greatest compliment any teacher can get. I always knew I was meant for teaching, after all… as soon as I entered Hogwarts, even before I had spotted the man whom I would fall in love with like never before, I knew that it was there that I would stay and live. I, who never believed in sixth senses, have to admit the existence of that one. It felt like my fate.

I was delighted when, finally, I could enter the gates of Hogwarts again- this time hand in hand with my lawfully wedded husband, my old, schoolgirl trunk floating somewhat behind us- even though somewhere deep down there was still this feeling of uncertainty which she, Anne, had caused within me two weeks earlier. I still did not know what my- our- quest was- I still did not know how to soothe Anne- how to grant her the rest she so desperately seemed to crave.

As Albus softly squeezed my hand, though, I stopped worrying and simply smiled a soft, happy smile as, with that almost child-like enthusiasm which I always so adored about him, he started introducing me to the castle as if I had not just spent the seven previous years of my life there.

The portraits even recognized me as Albus- for the very first time in my life- actually told me their full names. I had always been used to their faces of course- but their names and histories were quite new and quite interesting to me.

An elderly wizard- "Alberic Grunnion"- kindly nodded at me under a ridiculously high hat- as Albus told me his story- and the plump, fair-haired woman in the next portrait- "Elizabeth Aegnor"- furiously started to blush as he narrated about how she was the very first Headmistress of Hogwarts- a direct descendant of Helga Hufflepuff. I simply smiled and nodded at her and the numerous other portraits and people I was introduced to, before finally, I could happily sink down in both Albus's arms and the fluffy couch of our new, shared apartments.

As I brought up the subject of Anne again, though, I found my husband's clear blue eyes being filled with the uncharacteristic ignorance I, too, felt.

"And she told you we had a task to fulfil- a task for her?"

He frowned, deep in thought- and I nodded, my long, black plait bobbing up and down against my back, causing Albus to gently finger it- the way he always did when he was thinking.

"Do you have any clue- any idea-"

And all of a sudden, I had. It was strange- wondrous, even- how all of a sudden, as if by magic, the kaleidoscope inside of my head turned and twisted- until a clear picture all of a sudden showed up in front of my eyes. A clear picture of the truth- for that I knew- I knew it was the truth.

I did not know which had started it all- the realization- but mere seconds later, I all of a sudden did. It struck me almost as heavily as the realization itself did- and I knew-

It had been a mere name.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

All of a sudden, it was all so very clear to me- as if a curtain had been ripped, and the scene of the play of my life finally became visible in front of my eyes. And it was all so logical, after all. I couldn't believe I'd never thought of the possibility- but then again I knew that its seeming impossibility, its incredibility, would have stopped any ideas of mine anyway. Now, though, very suddenly, I saw that it was not incredible, not even improbable and most of all- that it was probably true, too.

Only as I woke up from my small reverie, mere seconds later, I realized that my husband was staring at me in a, to say the least, uncharacteristically strange fashion. Worried too, I realized, as he rested a hand against my cheek and frowned.

"Minerva, you're warm and you look pale- are you sure you are feeling okay?"

He was so absolutely adorable in his worry, that I could not but cast him a reassuring smile. Resting my own smaller hand atop of his, I shook my head.

"No, Albus, I assure you I am perfectly okay."

The doubtful expression on his face very nearly caused me to roll my eyes- but I practiced the infamous self-control that led me through my whole teaching career once more, and casting him another, somewhat stern smile, I shook my head again.

"I really am. It is just- I know what Anne asks of us now."

I daresay that was one of the rare lines that could, at that moment in time, literally make the great Albus Dumbledore nearly fall from the couch on the floor. It was, too, the moment when I realized that, though I had always seen the situation with Anne as a thing most closely related to myself, Albus was just as involved as I was, and perhaps even more for, logically, his visions had existed way longer a time than mine, after all.

"What does she ask- for Merlin's sake, Minerva, say something- what does she ask?"

All traces of humour, of that light-heartedness which was so definitely his very own, were chased from his voice now, and for the first time I fully saw my husband as what he really was and as what the world knew him- as a damn powerful wizard, and though I loved him just as much or even maybe more for that, this sudden change was still a surprise. Unconsciously fiddling with the end of my thick braid, I found myself wondering as for how I could tell him this news, and when I spoke up, I still was not sure of my words.

"Albus, have you- I mean, have you never wondered what it might have been that bonded Anne and Mark so strongly, that even after centuries and centuries their spirits united in order to reach us?"

I was surprised at my own sudden eloquence- who knows, perhaps it was Anne's voice speaking for me?- and I could read in my husband's now pale blue eyes that I had, indeed, asked a very relevant question. In fact it was the question which summarized our whole quest for an answer in just three lines- in fact it was the question to which the answer would be _our _answer- the answer I had craved and found through what I did not exactly want to name my own cleverness- through a coincidence- and the answer which Albus still was looking for.

"Love?"

I had expected this answer, and it was not without a now again relaxed smile that I shook my head. It was true, of course- I was convinced there had been and still was a great love between Anne and Mark, but it was too easy as an answer to as complex a question as ours.

"Right, in a way, but there is more, Albus. They died together, after all- there is no need for us to do anything for their mere love, because I think the fact that we can see both of them proves beyond doubt that that part of them did survive. No- their love was the cause, not the result."

The puzzled expression on his face now started getting near comical and with a trace of pity and a smile of reassurance, I dropped him a hint. The reader may have to comment that it seemed I regarded this all like a game, and the reader may blame me for that- but I beg for understanding. I was just eighteen, newly wed, despite all visions at the start of what felt like it would become the happiest time of my life- and, well, frankly, my much older and probably much wiser, too, husband was staring at me with eyes that would have made a newborn Flobberworm want to positively _cuddle_ him out of pity.

"Albus, think. Think of- yes, think of that blonde woman in that painting- Ms… Aegnor, wasn't it? Not of her, I mean- but of her name. Her first name-"

With this, I handed him the clue that had told me, too, the truth- and yet as Albus spoke up again, he had still not understood.

"My dear, I am sorry, but I still do not seem to understand you. The painting- I mean, what's about Elizabeth that-"

Here, though, a silence fell, and I knew that with him, too, realization had dawned.

And we just stared at each other.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

It was Albus who spoke up the first- I knew it had to be Albus, so I waited for him. I was curious, wanted to know his ideas, his- understanding of what was happening to us before telling him- and influencing him with- mine. His words, though, were though predictable still a bit disappointing- but the confusion in his eyes was real.

"Minerva- but how- how come they never…"

I knew he'd ask this- I knew it with a certainty that could only be Anne's, for it was definitely not mine- and I also knew what I had to respond to this question. One word.

"Red."

"Blood?"

I nearly rolled my eyes. Now Albus was a dear, and a clever dear at that- but his imagination, though lovable, did tend to be a little overactive at times. _Blood_ for heaven's sake. Though undoubtedly an integral part of both Anne's and Mark's life, it was not even close to what I, what Anne, had meant with the word.

"No, Albus, not _blood_. Honestly. No- in fact, I was talking about something much more rational, much more prosaic than blood. I was merely referring to- to the hair colour of the young Elizabeth Tudor."

"Hair colour? What-"

I daresay the look in my eyes was more than enough to stimulate Albus's brain- for it found its own answer to the question I had put on its own accord, a mere instant later.

"Red- of course. Red- auburn- and her eyes were dark green like- like Anne's, like yours, and her hair was red like-"

"Like Mark's."

My voice sounded hollow and surprisingly melancholy at these two words- and all of a sudden I knew, I realized, I felt to the full and utter extent the overwhelming- even to a woman like her, like me- amount of love Anne had felt for Mark- and still felt, perhaps.

It was the very same love I felt for Albus- and yet isn't it the one sole basic trait of love, that every lover thinks his feelings are unique in the world? Yes it is- and so, so did I- until I encountered Anne. The relation between Anne and me is and has always been a strange one, because we are- or were- basically the same person. We feel the same and think the same- we are the same, except for those 400-something years separating us from each other.

I don't know if that was the same for Albus and Mark- I will never know. Albus and I have always shared everything, every thought, every word, every emotion- but some things are not described easily, and there are some things which one cannot but guess.

"Minerva, how can we be sure that-"

Here, I fear, reader, must I honestly admit that I lost my patience with the man I love. My temper has always more than equalled Anne's- and my Scottish blood did not exactly do anything to soften it.

"Albus, how can we _not_ be sure? Elizabeth is _not _Henry's child, Anne did _not_ love Henry, she _did _cheat on him with Mark and they _did _get a daughter together. What is it with that ridiculously near-prudish attitude of yours, I do not get you! _HONESTLY!"_

I was sorry as soon as I closed my mouth again after the last, yelled, word. According to my father, that is the one thing why Albus was the only man I could ever have ended up with- he manages to make me feel sorry in the middle of a fit of anger, he manages to make me melt while burning with fury- it is just as unique as many of his other gifts, and I love him all the more for it.

I stared at my hands as he did not speak a word- but I felt his silent accusation and I knew what he wanted to say.

_I merely wanted to defend Anne, you, Minerva. I merely wanted to think rationally- you are the one accusing me of being too much of a dreamer, remember? I merely wanted to help work these things out, Minerva- and what is it that I get in return?_

And I- I felt guilty. I could see the truth in his unspoken words- of course I could- and apologizing, unfortunately, has never been my forte. I was not pretentious or anything, and never have been, but- I have always had troubles finding the words.

Albus, as always the darling that he truly is, found them for me, though- and as with one finger, he tilted up my chin, I could not but smile as we- in unison- spoke those four magical words.

"I am so sorry."

We were.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

We had solved our very own, private mystery- or at least that was the way we felt at that moment. We had- finally- found out about the true parentage of the woman who had been, perhaps, the greatest Tudor of them all- and yet, so we knew now, not a Tudor at all. A quite satisfactory result indeed.

And yet I was _not _satisfied. It took me a couple of weeks to even admit it to myself, but I was not satisfied- and neither was Albus, if the sometimes-pensive look in his usually so clear blue eyes was anything to go at. We were not satisfied- and once the euphoria of the first days after our discovery started to wear off, I found myself once more in a troubled state of mind.

_What did Anne want me- want Albus- to do?_

Did she want us to make our discovery public knowledge? This was definitely something we could do, I knew- him being one of the wizarding world's more renowned scholars and me being, despite my young age, respected already because of my exceptional NEWT scores. We could tell the world, and the wizarding world- being less prudish and less conventional than the muggle one- would most probably believe us as well. But was this what Anne truly wanted?

I wished I could ask her.

It was at that moment that I, for the very first time in my life, realized that I _could_ ask Anne. That I could- or, in other words, that I didn't have to. Anne as I knew her was a part of me, after all- and thus- and this was a frustrating idea to me- the answer to all my questions had to be hidden somewhere deep inside of my own mind- since that was where Anne lived!

After muttering a curt spell so as to chase the headache I had given myself through this ponderings away, I decided to discuss this idea with Albus. His relationship to Mark was- and is- a mystery to me, just like mine with Anne was to him, and yet I knew that somehow, I had to count on it as well.

Counting on other people- trusting other people- always was a problem of mine. Giving matters out of hand was, just like trusting one's intuition, to me an absolute taboo- and yet this case was learning me- and did learn me in the end- that sometimes there simply is no other way.

And yet neither of us came with a solution. We did agree that neither Anne nor Mark probably wanted us to make the news public- seeing as how that would damage the legacy of their, so often honoured, daughter. England's noble, high Virgin Queen, with her long and respected reign and her royal disposition- the bastard daughter of a Queen nicknamed witch and her lover? Impossible.

And yet that's what she was. That's what she had been.

It was only moments later that I realized that my mind- that mind of mine, which I knew Anne lived on in- had given me some very important information indeed. I had very nearly overlooked the one, sole word- since it seemed so obvious, and since I had read it on so many occasions before. It was understandable, but not excusable- because it could prove to be very important indeed. For if Anne…

It was probable, I realized on the next moment. Very probable, even- and France, and everything- it all fit in, it all, all, all fit in, and suddenly I couldn't believe how blind I had been. If I was just a reflection, a next life, of Anne's- then why had I never asked myself that suddenly very obvious question?

"Albus, what if Anne was-"

Yet the man whom I loved surprised me- and completed my sentence for me.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

A/N: To Rikki, in place of the real life hug I wished I could give right now :).

It was a shock, and as I sunk back into the burgundy sofa, I felt, for the first time in my life, my head literally spinning. It was unbelievable that we hadn't so much as considered this possibility before- but, of course, who would have thought? Not once had it been mentioned in the many books they had searched- not once even had they read anything about the mere chance of Anne being what she'd been thought to be by her contemporaries.

How many times hadn't Minerva read about the kind nicknames the people of England had gifted their common-born Queen with! Anne, the whore, Anne, the slut-

Anne- the witch.

Because of course, of course Anne Boleyn had been a witch in the true sense of the word. Not the evil, lowly creature Muggles in those times had imagined so as to picture everything they differed from and thus feared, but a real witch- just the way Minerva was.

And of course it all fit. Another piece of the puzzle it was indeed- and it fit right in. It explained the rumours about Anne as a child- it explained her sometimes strange intelligence- it explained her long absence to France. Hadn't she left England at eleven- and hadn't she returned to her home country, fully educated, at about the age of seventeen?

As Minerva hid her face in her hands, she realized she'd been stupid. Too stupid.

"I can't _believe_ we've overlooked this! I feel dumb, Albus- I feel downright dumb."

His hand on her shoulder irritated her- but at the same time, it was exactly what she needed, and as she turned her head, swinging her long, black braid over one shoulder, she couldn't but smile at the twinkles in her husband's eyes.

"Oh Albus, shush, I do!"

"Says the girl who collected more NEWTs during her career at Hogwarts than anyone ever before."

"Anyone except you." was Minerva's typical, dry reply, before, with a sigh, bowing over and pecking her husband on the tip of his long, crooked nose.

"I merely wanted to point out, Albus, that we've both been idiots. "Witch" is basically Anne's epithet, for God's sake!"

Though Minerva did try to hide it, she was really angry at herself, and Albus saw it. He knew better than anyone else how demanding the woman he loved had, through everything, always been towards herself. It was a fact which he could not change and, perhaps, didn't want to change, either, because it was so thoroughly Minerva- but still.

She could be so kind, so sensible, towards other people's mistakes- and yet towards her own faults, she couldn't. It was almost as if she was always more guilty, more wrong- and it was such a pity, really.

"Minerva, you can make mistakes and no-one will blame you."

As soon as she raised her chin, youth and age once more united in the look in her dark green eyes, though, Albus knew he'd made a mistake. Inside Minerva, inside the girl he loved lived the woman, the Queen, whom the man who lived on inside of him had loved and still loved.

"I can, Albus, but I won't. Anne is up there asking me, but even more so is she here, and it's there that I won't disappoint her."

Her hand was resting against her heart.


End file.
